Relaxation Techniques
by Skalidra
Summary: When Tim pushes the limits of how long he can stay functional (four days, a mission, and two straight days of sleep; not that bad) Kon decides to stage a bit of an intervention, with the support of the rest of the Teen Titans. Sending Tim to Hawaii for a week works... about as well as expected.


Welcome! This is another of the 100 prompts; number 100 itself, 'Relaxation', with the request that it be about Tim. (The boy _does_ need to relax; this is very true.) Totally gen this time, so enjoy!

No **warnings**!

* * *

"No."

He flails, reaching again for his phone and having it held frustratingly up and out of his reach. "But what if—"

" _No_ ," Kon repeats, stern but the _asshole_ is smirking a little and he can _totally_ see it. "It's a vacation, Tim. The point is for you _not_ to be working. If I give you the phone, you're going to work."

He considers whipping out his kryptonite from where he stored it in his suitcase, he really does, but settles on whining and pawing for the phone again. " _Conner_ , come on. _Please?_ Emergencies. World-ending catastrophes. People need to be able to contact me!"

"We've got two people _on our team_ that can circle the world faster than any actual method of transportation. More in the Justice League. _More_ if you count all the other heroes. Settle down, Tim, _Someone_ can contact you."

He's pushed back another step, into a line he doesn't want to be in if it means being separate from his _phone_. "What if I get into danger and need to contact someone?" he asks. "You know the percentages for these kinds of things; that could _totally happen_."

"Mmhmm." Kon is completely, totally unmoved by his pleading. "In which case you are on a well traveled island with _lots_ of people with phones, and I'm sure someone will let you borrow theirs. You have emergency crime-fighting supplies if you need them—" Dick packed his suitcase; the _traitor_ "—and you are well trained enough to handle just about anything you need to. For the love of god, Tim, just _relax_ for a week. We are a highly trained group of individuals, aligned with lots of _other_ highly trained groups; we can handle the world for seven days without you, I promise. Go through security and get on the damn plane."

Since whining isn't working he switches to glaring. "Kon. Give me the phone. Right now."

Kon puts a hand on his chest, immovable fingers keeping him too far away to reach as the other hand tightens a fraction around his phone. He gets a too-bright smile, and a, "Get on the plane, or I break this and then fly you to Hawaii myself. You know I will, Tim, and I will keep you in my TTK field the whole time and make it an _extra_ slow trip while I keep you _perfectly_ still. I know you don't want that."

 _Damn_ his team — specifically Kon — for knowing him that well. He grinds his teeth, tries one last glare, and then huffs and steps back. " _Fine_. I won't forget this Conner; know that now. I will get revenge."

"I'm terrified," Kon deadpans. "So you know, everyone else has been told you're going on this trip. If _anyone_ sees you outside of Hawaii for the next week, they're going to take you right back. And we will _know_. So don't try and ditch the plane or leave the island until your return flight is scheduled."

"Revenge," he repeats, and then steps a little more obviously into the line, dragging his suitcase behind him. "You come _get_ me if anything goes wrong."

Kon gives _the_ most bland, country-boy smile and just says, "Sure thing!"

 _Liar_.

* * *

The plane ride is _torture_ without something to distract him. There's an in-flight movie complete with little headphones if you want sound, via an interactive touch screen on the front of the seat ahead of him that he can only actually reach if he leans forward. It's the same movie. Played on repeat. Luckily his friends were nice enough — and he's well known enough — that he's in first class instead of anything else, but that just gives him more space to be bored, and it's not 'first class' in the Wayne sense but the more common 'first business class' style that gets him less neighbors, more legroom, and free drinks.

He _almost_ asks for one, but really that's just the general irritation talking and he really shouldn't put the hostesses in the uncomfortable position of having to either give someone underage alcohol, or risk making him unhappy. He doesn't even really want a drink so much as just something to do, and those options are very, _very_ low. There's the movie, the little bag of amenities he gets that are really just like random little hotel extras, and one book that Dick put in his carry-on bag. The cover looked like a romance novel; he is not _that_ bored.

 _Ten hours._ Ten hours on a non-stop flight. He does manage to pass out for a good six of them, thanks to a combination of previous lack of sleep and some 'get sleep when you can' tuned instincts, but that still leaves him four hours to kill with nothing to actually kill them with.

By the time they're landing he's already bored out of his skull, and that's before he's even getting of the plane and stepping out onto the island itself. Lots of sun, lots of people, so many _tourists_ and they're all happy and smiling and it's really weird. Metropolis was weird enough after working in Gotham for so long, with everyone not automatically assuming that things would go terribly so best to be prepared. (Sunshine, Superman, _optimism_.) But this place? This is like everyone in his vicinity has been drugged.

He plants his 'Timothy Drake-Wayne' smile firmly on his face and steps into the fray to blend in as best as he can manage. He's pretty sure a couple people recognize him — paparazzi, even _here_ — but he manages to slip behind large families and lose them gracefully enough. Practice makes perfect.

From airport to hotel, which is big and fancy and air conditioned, and actually private once he closes the curtains on the enormous, whole-wall of a window in his room. There's two sheets of paper on his bed that are stapled together, and once he picks them up it takes about two seconds and a sense of dawning horror for him to recognize it as an _activity sheet_. He's signed up for activities. _Group_ , tourist, activities. Tours, 'nature walks,' classes on surfing, snorkeling, a _scavenger hunt_ … There's enough on the list that even on numbers alone he's not going to have more than a couple hours of 'free time' a day. For a _week_.

Oh _god_.

He stalks over to the phone, props himself against the headboard of the bed — _so many pillows_ — and dials Kon's cellphone.

He gets a bright, cheery, _"Hey, Robin!"_ after four rings, and _feels_ his mouth curl into a little snarl.

"I _hate_ you," he hisses. "Activities? Are you _kidding_ me? Every single class you signed me up for, I already know how to do!"

Kon, the _ass_ , just laughs.

"Snorkeling? _Snorkeling_ , Kon, are you _serious?!_ I know how to deep-sea dive I don't need to be taught how to _snorkel_. Exactly what part of who you know me as made you think that I'd want to go out into blinding sun with groups of clueless civilian tourists and look at brightly colored fish?" He flops down across the bed, burying his face in one of the excessive amount of pillows and hissing, "Why do you _hate_ me?"

 _"You're being very melodramatic, Tim,"_ Kon informs him, still all too cheerful. _"It's a vacation, not a death sentence."_

He turns his head just enough to spit, "I don't need a vacation," into the receiver.

A clunk, like something being set down. _"Tim, honey, you stayed awake for four days straight, started hallucinating, and then passed out on the jet ride back from a mission you should not have gone on and didn't wake up for two solid days. You terrified the newbies. Dick was concerned. Dick, the workaholic, never-quit-the-case-till-it's-done, original push-until-I-pass-out Robin. I have heard the stories. If Dick is concerned, you need a vacation."_

None of that is actually a _lie_ , as much as he'd like to argue, so he settles for petulantly insisting, "I had everything under control. I've done worse before."

 _"That's not a good thing, Tim."_ A pause; he can hear shuffling in the back, hear the thunk of the phone being set down and then picked back up a couple seconds later. _"You don't have to go to everything, Tim. But a lot of that stuff needs to be booked in advance or it sells out and you can't get in at all. Also, you would not willingly seek out anything, so the options are already set up for you. Go to like, one thing a day, alright? If you really want to, you can just spend the rest of the time in the hotel's gym, or the pool. Get some hard training in or something."_

He narrows his eyes. "That's not a… terrible idea," he admits, reluctantly.

 _"Uh-huh. Entertain yourself and have fun, Tim. Talk to you later."_

Kon hangs up, and lacking any other recourse he drops the phone and then calls, "Kon-el, you're still an _ass!_ " into the room. Fifty-fifty chance Kon is listening specifically for his voice and might hear him. Good enough.

He sighs, drops the phone back on the cradle, and then sprawls out so he can grab the list and then the pen sitting on the end table. Might as well at least _try_ to find some semi-interesting ones. God knows he's got some time to kill.

* * *

Seven days later, he steps off the plane and back onto land in San Francisco; a _much_ shorter flight back to the Titan's base than it was from Gotham. Kon and Bart are there to greet him, holding a sign with 'TIM' on it in obnoxiously bright, sparkly red letters. Of course. He pastes a smile on and walks over to them.

Kon drags him into a hug first, and Bart _almost_ speeds to him but somehow manages to only blur a little bit and actually wait for the second hug.

Then Kon looks him up and down, squints, and says, "You're… surprisingly not burnt or tan. Did you find magic sunscreen or something?"

"What'd you do?!" Bart demands, much faster and way less suspicious.

He smiles. "Well, I took Kon's _great_ advice. Spent a lot of time in the gym, entertained myself… Mostly I went on the dinner cruises but I took a couple morning ones too." He looks _directly_ at Kon, smiles _wider_. "You know, turns out there was a couple _really_ corrupt CEOs there having an under the table meeting about some rather complicated and illegal stock play you probably wouldn't understand. I had _lots_ of fun. Thanks, Kon."

"You're _kidding_ me," Kon says, voice utterly flat. "I send you to _Hawaii_ and you find crime. What the hell, Tim?"

"Just a talent," he answers, and yeah, he's enjoying the satisfaction of not having gone along with Kon's plan. "Anyway, they're in jail, I had fun, so really, successful story. Definitely." It's mocking, but he feels he's entitled to a little bit of that. "Let's go then, hm?"

He walks past, ignoring Kon's look and cheerfully dragging his suitcase behind him. He can hear Bart run to catch up with him, and Kon's heavier steps just a little bit behind. Bart comes up beside him, babbling on and asking him questions about the guys he caught. Kon comes up on his other side a second later, and he pointedly doesn't look over. Send him away to Hawaii for a week. _Ha_. Like that was ever going to work.

They get to the car without anything but a little bit of screaming paparazzi — no one close enough to actually bother them, thankfully — and slide into the limo without a problem. Kon and Bart still look a little awkward inside of them, but he'd guess that's never going to go away. It takes some practice to get used to riding in limos regularly; he's been practicing since he was a kid. He gives the address for the legally owned apartment he's got in the city, and then turns to actually look at Kon.

"Phone," he demands, wiggling his fingers in that direction. "I need to update a few people on some no longer open cases. _Business_ stuff. Come on."

"I'm going to get you on a real vacation," Kon threaten-promises, but does pull his phone out and hand it over.

He takes it, and smiles. " _Try_."


End file.
